Burnin' Up
by Ms. Unlucky
Summary: AU-ish. A Hunt goes wrong, and Dean ends up with some unexpected side-effects... Featuring Powers!Creature!Dean, Caring!Protective!Powers!Sam, Bobby, Mean!John, YED and Wincest. ... oh, and bottom!Dean. XD


**Author Stuff ~ **So it's official. All of my better stories are being posted on my LJ. :3 My user name is** Raindrops1mil** in case anyone is (doubtfully) curious. ;D

**LiveJournal link:** . com :3

**Burnin' up**

There are something's that even Hunter's look at you crazy for. Casually throwing around the word "Phoenix" is one of them. Or at least, it used to be.

Still on the lookout for dear old Dad, Sam and Dean had reached yet another dead end and were taking their frustrations out on a Hunt. A Hunt that was supposed to be simple, like a Salt and Burn, or maybe a Vamp or Were.

But no, things can never be that simple in the history of _all_ Winchester's to ever exist.

Now that he looks back at it though, things really should have been more obvious. But, to his and Sam's credit, they were in Florida, in _July_ and hadn't known it was a Phoenix they were hunting until the very clusterfucky end.

How was Dean supposed to know that there was more than one reason the dude on top of him–tongue fucking his mouth–felt way too warm to be normal? They were outside in the dude's car, in the middle of the God forsaken afternoon, and he was drugged!

As it turns out, Phoenix's were somewhat in the same family as Siren's; something along the lines of very, _very _distant cousins. They produce a pheromone in their saliva that, just as a Siren's Song, makes you horny beyond belief.

And Jesus fuck was Dean horny.

He was doing all his thinking with his down stairs brain, even though the one _up_ stairs was desperate for control. That, Sam would tell him later after fucking him sloppy, was the only reason he still had his man parts. Cheating is cheating after all, even if a Monster ambushes you with its supernatural spit.

So Sam had busted in one of the car's windows and repeatedly shot the thing full of rock salt, but of course that had little to no affect on the Fugly. It was by chance that Dean managed to gain enough control over his body to pull out his gun–full of iron bullets–and shoot the thing over and over again until it stopped screaming and turned to ash.

Dean can still taste the things blood in his mouth: slightly minty with a copper undertone. Gross.

So yeah, as he said before, they hadn't known exactly what it was until it burst into dust on top of Dean when he killed it. And that's why they definitely didn't see what was coming next…

* * *

><p>The first time it happened, Sam thought he was possessed.<p>

They were in their motel room–a nicer one than usual, they thought they could use a break after a bazillion no-tell motels in a row–and the fridge in the small kitchenette had an icemaker that actually worked.

The scene is this: Dean's sitting at the small two chair table skimming through the news paper for a Hunt, and Sam's in the kitchen getting him a glass of ice water and some Tylenol: Dean's running a slight fever. Sam sits at the table, the ice clinking against the glass cup, and sets Dean's drink in front of him, the pills as well.

It all goes downhill from there.

Dean reaches for the cup, but picks it up too fast, causing some of the water to slosh from side to side and spill. It wasn't much, not enough to make a real mess, but as soon as the cold water touches his wrist and hand, it steams up with a light sizzle.

Before Sam completely processes the 'What the fuck' look Dean's giving his own wrist, before he fully thinks everything through _(Because even though the water steamed up, it wasn't Holy water, and last time either of them checked you had to give a little prayer before water did shit to Demons.)_ Sam's up and lunging for his duffle, yanking out his flask of Holy water, and flinging the liquid in Dean's general direction.

Nothing happens.

Dean is pissed.

Sam isn't entirely convinced.

"Christo," Dean stares at Sam like he's just grown a second head, and doesn't flinch; his eyes stay perfectly human.

Eventually _(After Sam makes Dean go through the whole 'cut yourself with a silver knife, eat some salt and one more round of Holy water just to be sure' bullshit.)_ Sam is sure Dean is Dean, and that something's wrong.

Of course they both test it out again–drip more water on the eldest Winchester–but nothing happens. At least, not until they use the same glass of water that made the phenomena occur before.

There's less steam the second time around, and Sam goes off on a limb and says it's the temperature of the water.

He's right.

They refill the glass with more ice and try it again. Sure enough a puff of steam rises off Dean's arm and any water touching his skin sizzles into nonexistence.

Dean makes a crack about the level of his 'hotness'.

Sam calls Bobby in a panic.

* * *

><p>The second time something happens, Sam has to drag Dean out of a diner before he does something stupid.<p>

They weren't exactly anywhere near Bobby's when they began their journey toward the seasoned Hunter–looking for help on Dean's newly found issues–so it's not all that out there that they ended up stopping six hours out from South Dakota for a bite to eat. Dean orders a Pig-and-a-poke; Sam orders a salad. They both get coffee.

So the meat there tasted like rubber as per-usual, Sam's salad was looking a bit on the wilted side and the coffee was stone cold, but Dean felt it his place to point out how hot the waitress was, so it made stomaching the food somewhat worth it.

Sam whole-heartedly disagreed and gave his brother bitchface #5, which Dean read as his 'big alpha male, toppy Sam is jealous', and so shut up. He was still sore from their latest exhibitionism and Sam got rough whenever he got all possessive in bed. Dean didn't need a limp at Bobby's to top everything off.

Breakfast banter went as usual, with lewd and childish jokes on Dean's part, and Sam being an all around stick in the mud as he always was after a long drive or early mornings. _(And it was a double whammy this time around.)_ But then Dean started feeling warm again, like he had with the fever. Sam of course asked if he was alright, apparently he was looking a little flushed–enough so to concern him.

Dean brushed it off however, said he was fine as he reached for his cold cup of coffee. It wasn't until it was half way to his mouth that Dean noticed his coffee bubbling. No, it was _boiling._ He carefully set it back down on the table, and both he and Sam watched on as it slowly cooled down and stilled. Curiously, Dean reached out for the chipped glass again–then proceeded to yank his hand back like he'd been stricken when the coffee bubbled up once more.

"Holy shit-" was all he could manage before the perky, blond and _busty_ waitress sauntered on over towards them–there to collect the check and dirty dishes.

Sam was all but able to stop Dean from magically boiling coffee in front of the chick, all while giving her the 'that-hot-piece-of-ass-sitting-across-from-me-is-mine-mine-mine' look. It didn't come off very intimidating though, seeing as he and Dean had ended up in a footsies war as Sam desperately tried to keep Dean from once again touching the coffee mug.

* * *

><p>Third time around and the Winchester luck runs out quick as per-usual; Dean will never forgive himself.<p>

It had taken Bobby all day just to figure out that whatever was wrong with Dean had to do with the Phoenix they'd killed not so long ago. But he wasn't sure how or why; said he'd need at least a week for that–he had a friend in Boston express mailing him some of their more extensive collection on Phoenix's and anything related.

The first night they stayed there, Sam and Dean slept in their usual spot: a guest bedroom up stairs, second door to the left.

Dean had a nightmare about one of the countless Hunts he'd been on in his short life, and he woke to Sam screaming and smoke filling his lungs.

They managed to put the fire out, with Dean's bed and clothes in ruins and Sam's upper left arm badly scorched–Dean completely unharmed, despite his recent bath in flames.

Bobby bitches about 'them Winchester's always trying to bring down my house', but Dean saw the look in his eyes, saw the worry and the fear, which didn't even compare to what he himself was feeling towards burning his brother. Sam had assured him that it was fine, that it wasn't his fault. But it was. Dean made the fire, the fire hurt Sam. How could it have _not_ been his fault?

He spends the next week sleeping in the panic room, all flammable objects pointedly removed from the iron chamber. He can't make eye contact with Sam, the nightmares get worse and eventually after setting fire to the fifth piece of furniture in a row, Dean stops leaving his nonflammable safe-haven all together.

* * *

><p>The hours spent in the basement alone aren't exactly wasted.<p>

It scared him at first, but after a few tries and realizing that it doesn't harm him in any way, shape or form, Dean's really gotten a hang of this whole 'I can set a part of my body on fire at will' thing.

He lights up his hand, concentrates as he slowly lets the flame crawl up his arm and to his elbow where he makes it stop. _(He ruined a good few shirts mastering this trick.) _He can put it out in a blink of an eye, start it just as quick, but he can't control the fire any farther than that. Every time he tries it ends with Bobby or Sam running down the stairs with a bucket of water, and soaking a panicking Dean until the fire goes out. And that scares him more than anything.

What if he can't stop the fire, like he couldn't his first night at Bobby's? What if he seriously hurts Sammy the next time around? What if he… What if he accidentally _killed_ him?

So Dean's satisfied with his little trick for now, and has pointedly _stopped_ trying to control it any farther. He won't hurt Sammy again. Not if he can help it.

It's not the first time Dean's had problems with old Yellow-eyes in his dreams, it's just the first time Yellow-eyes has actually been _in his dreams._

He thought for sure it was just a dream the first time around, then he thought it was just fear filled delirium the second time. Sam was the one with the freaky powers and the visions, not him. There was no reason for that yellow-eyed son of a bitch to be interested in him at all.

Except now Dean did have powers. And even though they didn't come from the Demon per se, he didn't seem at all obliged to be picky.

"_Look at you," _he'd taunt. _"Exiled yourself, to what? An iron prison? Pathetic. With your potential, you should be outside, doing what you were destined."_

He'd ask exactly what he was _'destined'_ for, seeing as the whole Phoenix thing was a mistake. But the Demon never answered him. Just let a knowing smile creep its way to his face before disappearing, leaving Dean to burn…

Turns out, Dean probably should have kept his mouth shut when he killed the Phoenix.

Phoenix's don't usually go out of their way to attack people like it had Dean, they're not entirely sure why it went after him, but they do know that it wasn't just to kill him. Or eat him.

Phoenix's are rarely made the, uh, _natural_ way. More often than not they're handpicked by another Phoenix and 'turned', kind of like Vampires. And, just like Vampire's, you need a little bit of Phoenix blood to change. But Dean wasn't a Phoenix, at least not entirely. The ritual was interrupted by Sam and his Sawed-off full of rock salt.

They're not entirely sure what was needed other than the Phoenix blood to finish the ritual, and they don't really care. Whatever it was it didn't happen, which still left hope for Dean to be 'turned' back. They just needed the right book, and Sammy was very optimistic, as was Bobby.

Dean had to fight down a wave of nausea that worked its way up his throat at the thought of losing his new found abilities, no matter how many times he told himself it was the Monster's blood talking. His mind screamed for normalcy while his body screamed for _more._

* * *

><p>Even with the books, finding out what was wrong and how to fix it was like trying to find a needle in a hay stack. Their next course of action show's just as much.<p>

Nobody really says anything, or asks for permission. They're at the end of their rope and have almost nothing to show for it. Sam's the one who calls, and he and Bobby pretend not to notice Dean's distinct lack of appetite once it's all said and done.

"John," Bobby greets, opening the screen door to let the man in. He gets a grunt in reply, but he doesn't say anything. The man looks pissed enough as is. No reason to instigate before they can get anything useful out of the Hunter.

Sam and John don't share a hug; barely spare each other a glance. It isn't a happy reunion, and it definitely doesn't live up to what Sam had imagined it'd be, what John had on some level hoped it'd turn out. But then again, these weren't exactly the circumstances they thought they'd end up meeting each other under–no one could have foreseen it.

They go over everything for what to Sam feels like hours. John pointedly stays upstairs, doesn't go anywhere near the basement door.

Sam is furious.

It's predictable, Sam's eventual explosion, and he and John end up at each other's throats and everything comes out in the open–not like it took a genius _(Or a screaming match)_ for anyone to figure out what was going through either Winchester's head.

John blames Dean's incompetence as a Hunter for the whole fiasco.

Sam blames both John's absence, and his obsession to avenge Mary that led them to this life in the first place.

Bobby pulls out of the room, stopping in the kitchen long enough to grab something for Dean to eat before retreating to the Panic room. What he finds isn't what he'd expected. In fact, it has him dropping the plate of fish stick's he'd warmed up from his and Sam's lunch the day before and running to the prone form on the floor.

He calls for help, but the youngest and eldest Winchester are too busy screaming at each other to hear the seasoned Hunters distress.

Dean won't wake up.

He's crumpled on his side at the foot of an iron wall, eyes flickering frantically under closed lids. He's broken out into a cold sweat, murmuring nonsense under his breath; his breathing's slow, so much so that Bobby has to really concentrate to see his chest move in the lazy up and down motions.

He shakes Dean–slaps his face for good measure–but nothing seems to work.

"Damn it, boy. Don't do this," Bobby's not entire sure what to do, but suddenly Dean's body is a lot warmer than when he'd first knelt down next to the young Hunter. He knows from experience what's coming next.

He jumps to his feet; runs for the stairs. He and Sam leave a bucket in the kitchen near the sink–Dean's _"episodes"_ are becoming more frequent, though he's never seen one play out quite like this.

Bobby tries to keep that grim thought from growing into realization. He doesn't need the Winchester pessimism to top everything off.

* * *

><p>Dean wonders if his father thinks he can't hear his accusations from the Panic room. It's unlikely, but he likes to play with the idea.<p>

"_Dean should have known better!"_

"_What was he even doing there alone?"_

"_Sloppy. I taught him better than that."_

It was gratifying that at least Sammy was backing him up, when he himself could not. And that's if he'd even do it if he was up there. He knew better than to argue: daddy's good little solider, right?

But still, Sam's got it under control. He's not letting Dean get verbally leveled without some kind of fight.

"_No one's perfect _John!_ I didn't even give it a second thought!"_

"_We just got there, none of the evidence we had suggested the thing would be at the fucking bar!"_

"_What, so your 'perfect solider' can't slip up every now and then? And what about you? I seem to recall you fucking up an awful lot; getting both yourself and us nearly killed!"_

Dean felt his skin heat up; knew what was coming if he didn't get his emotions under control. He needed to lie down. Not sleep, no never sleep. Resting brought his inflammability under control; sleeping made it worse.

Dean leaned his back against one of the cold iron walls, breathing slowly and relaxing; bringing his temperature down.

It didn't make the yellow go away though, nothing ever did. Not anymore.

Every time he shut his eyes, even just to blink, the sickening yellow of the Demon who'd been haunting his family since before he was born stared at him. Those eyes weren't filled with hate though, not the disappointment he was sure he'd see in his own fathers eyes if he ventured upstairs now either. He couldn't quite place exactly what those eyes were conveying, just that no matter what he did, no matter how long he managed to keep himself awake, those eyes never disappeared, and the sulfur scented son of a bitch was always there to greet him in his unconsciousness.

"_Hello Dean."_ It's as neutral sounding as it's been since their first _discussion_, and Dean ideally wonders when exactly he fell asleep.

He doesn't bother with a reply, he hasn't since Sam called Dad.

"_There's nothing to be ashamed of Dean-o, there's no way you could have avoided this."_

And that forces Dean's full attention to the Demon, because he's never said anything quite like that before. It was usually the same old, same old: use the powers you've been given; use them for your "higher purpose".

"_What?"_

"_You heard me. And you know exactly what I'm talking about. You can feel it–can't you? The way your blood boils with unspent energy… No normal Human would react to Phoenix blood the same as you, Dean. Think about it. Has there ever been another reported case of this in the entire history of the Supernatural? What makes you think you'd be special–just because? There's a reason Dean. And you know it…"_

And just like that their discussion's over. He has more questions–tons of them–but the fire has grown too strong, too loud. He couldn't hear the Demon even if the son of a bitch actually answered.

He can feel the molten heat all around him, and oddly enough it's comforting–he doesn't pull away like he would have just days ago. But then he does pull away, when that comforting heat turns into a cold shock.

His eyes shoot open–only half aware that he was still dreaming–but that doesn't make sense because the fire's still there; still a comforting temperature engulfing his skin.

Then the shock of cold grounds him a bit more, and he takes in his surroundings in a panicked hustle.

He's on the floor, in the panic room, his entire body is aflame and Bobby, Sam and Dad are all holding buckets–all but Bobby's empty.

That doesn't last long, and before Dean can even blink the cold shock is revealed to be water; the others' desperate attempts to 'put him out'.

"Fuck," he gasps, whether from the shock of what just happened or aggravation of the comforting flames be put out, he's not sure–doesn't know if he wants to distinguish the feelings. "_Fuck."_

Sam's by his side in a heartbeat, helping him up into a sitting position.

John doesn't move an inch; Dean can't meet his eyes.


End file.
